


Freedom in This Union

by sanguinity



Category: Strange Empire (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Seven scenes from a marriage.





	Freedom in This Union

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evewithanapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/gifts).



> Thanks to amindamazed and grrlpup for brainstorming, encouragement, and beta. Thanks also to evewithanapple: thank you for bidding on me, and I hope you enjoy the story!
> 
> Warning for attempted rape.

Isabelle Slotter needs only two things of Mrs. Loving: for her to say _I do,_ and to walk away and leave her in peace.

The final words of the ceremony said, and the justice of the peace gone, Mrs. Loving gravely removes her ring, the mate of Isabelle's own, and places it in Isabelle's palm. Isabelle closes her fingers around it. It has no weight in her palm. It is the free end of a pair of golden shackles, hers to control. She will string it on a chain and wear it against her breast, safe and private and hers alone.

"There is freedom in this union, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle says, and feels no need to suppress her smile.

~ ~ ~

Isabelle Smythe needs only one thing of Mrs. Loving: to oversee Isabelle's mine, thereby safeguarding both their interests.

This time, however, Mrs. Loving does not comply so easily. "I'm not a miner," she says.

"Mine _overseer,"_ Isabelle corrects.

"I'm not an overseer, either, standing over men, making sure they work to the satisfaction of their masters." Mrs. Loving nearly spits the words in her disgust.

"What do you imagine, you will be threatening men with a whip in your hand? You will do no more than watch over my interests, and yours. Or have you forgotten that the mine profits are to pay for your stock, Mrs. Loving? There will be no profits to share if Ling's foreman thieves from me, or if Cornelius's engineer schemes to swindle me. I require someone there on the ground, and under the ground, looking to see that all is as it should be."

"Nothing stopping you from doing that," Mrs. Loving says.

Isabelle only draws herself tall and haughty, and stares Mrs. Loving down. Isabelle has worked too hard, given up too much, to rise from slave, kitchen girl, and whore to her current status of wife and lady. She will not stoop to dirt and labor again. She means to be free of Cornelius Slotter someday, which means being able to secure her own investors, and _that_ can't be done while mucking about in the dirt.

Mrs. Loving makes a face, as if she's tasted something putrid, and Isabelle feels the echo of the expression on her own. Mrs. Loving, always so _virtuous._ "I already have a job," Mrs Loving says, as if Isabelle has said something that must be answered. "Sheriff."

Protesting too much, Mrs. Loving is, and it makes Isabelle smile. "Oh, please. You only took that job so that you could shoot my husband. Which you did, may I remind you."

"Which I paid for when I married you," Mrs. Loving returns.

"So you did. _Husband."_

Mrs. Loving almost smiles at that. Something in her eyes, amusement at a secret shared.

"There's housing in it," Isabelle entices. "The bunkhouse has been standing empty since John died and his men scattered. It waits for a new overseer. Or were you planning on keeping your girls in a tent all winter?"

Mrs. Loving considers, then turns to her horse. She steps up into her stirrup, swings a leg over. "Wages in it, too," Mrs. Loving bargains. "Don't think I'm going to work for you only on the promise of profits the mine might some day make. Five dollars a day."

The rank shrewdness of it amuses Isabelle. She had come to Kat Loving only because Mrs. Loving was honest to a fault — a trait Isabelle only values in others — and because their interests in this are well-aligned. Isabelle had not expected Mrs. Loving to cannily demand that both sides of her bread be buttered, too.

"Wages, too," Isabelle agrees. "Four dollars a day."

But Mrs. Loving shakes her head. "Five dollars," she insists. "And I find someone to be sheriff in my staid first."

"Five dollars, and you start tomorrow. If Mrs. Briggs wants another sheriff, she can find someone her ownself."

"Five dollars," Mrs. Loving agrees, a sparkle in her eye, "and I start tomorrow."

~ ~ ~

Isabelle Smythe needs only one thing of Kat Loving: for her to stop _talking,_ so that Isabelle might be ill in peace.

"Mrs. Smythe?" Mrs. Loving asks, blessedly breaking off her speech about the proper timbering of the mine. Judging from how ill Isabelle is just now, the baby detests talk of the mine. Isabelle should have sent Mrs. Loving away again when she came to the door; the baby always makes her ill at this hour. Little Ada had done the same, may she rest in peace.

"Are you quite well?" Mrs. Loving asks, concern in her voice.

"Quite well," Isabelle answers, and then she is not well at all.

"Shh," Mrs. Loving says, a short while later. She has her arm around Isabelle's shoulders, and has aimed Isabelle so that she was sick onto the hardwood, rather than the rug. It is an eminently practical thing for Mrs. Loving to have done. They are similar in no other way, but they are nearly kindred spirits in their ruthless practicality. "That's better, get it all out," Mrs. Loving soothes. A cool hand strokes Isabelle's arm.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle says when she is quite done. She dabs at her mouth with the back of her hand. Some sick has splashed on Mrs. Loving's boots, where it has mixed with coal dust.

"Better than Mrs. Briggs' drunks," Mrs. Loving says with a wry smile. Isabelle would not be nearly so patient, if someone had been in sick in conversation with her. "Sit," Mrs. Loving says, guiding Isabelle to the love-seat, "and I'll get you a glass of water."

Isabelle is still breathing deeply, attempting to settle her stomach by sheer force of will, when the serving girl comes in with rag and bucket and dustpan, obviously rousted out of the kitchen by Mrs. Loving. She is a new addition to the household: no family of her own and too young to whore, a replacement for Ruby who left with Cornelius, much good may it do her.

Then Mrs. Loving returns, bearing a blessed glass of water. Her boot-toes are washed clean.

"Mrs. Smythe," she says, as she hands Isabelle the glass of water. Mrs. Loving is the only one who uses Isabelle's new name. Everyone else names her Slotter, as if she is still John's, or Cornelius's before him. But perhaps Isabelle's new marriage — marriage to her own freedom — is more real to Mrs. Loving than it is to anyone else. Mrs. Loving was at least present for it, after all.

"Shall I send for the doctor?" Mrs. Loving asks, sitting close by Isabelle on the love-seat. The strength in her slight form is strangely comforting.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Loving. It is only—" Isabelle bites off the rest before she says too much. She is still queasy, and it makes her careless. The serving girl is nearby, and Isabelle does not need her gossipping far and wide about the baby. The baby may yet become a useful tool for unpicking the alliance between Cornelius and Ling — playing the possible grandfather against the possible father — but she needs to control the stories they each hear, and she cannot do that if the serving girl blabs first.

Mrs. Loving's eyes narrow, considering. "Perhaps Ling? An herbalist—"

"—is not needed, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle snaps. It is too soon for Ling to know about the baby.

"I see," Mrs. Loving says, and Isabelle fears that Mrs. Loving does see. But Mrs. Loving says nothing more, only squeezes Isabelle's hand. "If you're quite sure." She squeezes Isabelle's hand again. "I should get back to the mine. Mind what I said about the timbering. There will be no profit to be had if the new section collapses for inadequate shoring." The bite of her tone belies the reasonableness of her words.

Isabelle smiles to herself, wondering when Mrs. Loving became so canny so as to speak of profit to Isabelle.

"Go, husband our investment," Isabelle says, and Mrs. Loving grimaces.

" _Your_ investment," she corrects.

"It is your ranch down under that ground," Isabelle reminds her. "Your stock and lumber and hired hands hiding in that coal." Even Mrs. Loving is motivated by self-interest. Right now, with Isabelle's own hand Mrs. Loving's, it is important to remember that.

"I remember," Mrs. Loving says. "Do you need help to bed?"

"I will bide well enough here," Isabelle assures her, and with a firm nod, Mrs. Loving leaves.

That evening, however, she returns.

"Here," Mrs. Loving says on the dark porch; she has declined to come in. She presses a small cloth bag into Isabelle's hand. Isabelle spills a little of its contents into her palm, holds them to the light: they are withered roots, cleaned and cut small. "Chew one when you feel ill; it will help with the sickness. It helped me, when I was with child."

Isabelle goes still. Everyone will know, soon enough, but she would not have them know yet. "Mrs. Loving…" she warns. "I am not…"

She cannot make herself say it. She does not know whose child this is, John's or Ling's, and she does not know if it will ultimately be an asset or a complication in the fight over the mine. But either way, she desperately wants it to live and thrive, as little Ada did not. Publicly denying the child now would be a bad omen. The baby might hear. The baby might _listen._ "I am…" she tries again, and manages even less than before. "I cannot accept this," she says instead.

But Mrs. Loving shakes her head. "It is bad enough that I took your husband from you, Mrs. Smythe. Now, when you need him most. And I know you do not want a new one, neither, but…" Mrs. Loving's face is a picture, conviction and regret all rolled up into one. "You ask, if you need more. I will send to my aunties for you." She turns and stumps down the porch steps. "Good night, Mrs. Smythe," she says as she mounts her horse, and with a stiff wave, she rides off down the drive, with more haste than seems strictly warranted.

"Good night, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle whispers to the dark.

~ ~ ~

Isabelle Smythe needs nothing of Mrs. Loving. There is no _opportunity_ for Isabelle to need anything of Mrs. Loving: these last months, Mrs. Loving has been more active and diligent than a husband. Mrs. Loving has certainly been more attentive than John ever was. John was too absorbed in his mine, in his schemes for meeting payroll, to pay much attention to Isabelle's pregnancy with Ada. But John had not been her only husband: as the months go by, and Isabelle watches Mrs. Loving and her determined helpfulness, Isabelle finds herself wondering what sort of husband Mr. Albert Smythe might have been.

It is a ridiculous fancy, and yet at odd moments she finds herself indulging in it. Observant and diligent, Mr. Smythe would have been, that much is clear. Sober and responsible, too. Attentive, but not suffocating. Isabelle could have done far worse in a husband, had she been in the market for one. She fingers the spare wedding ring strung around her neck — the fictitious Mr. Smythe's ring — and is nevertheless grateful that no one wears it.

Through the winter and spring, as Isabelle's pregnancy progresses, Mrs. Loving is often to be found around the big house, and yet she is never underfoot. She attends to the mine and her children — as far as Isabelle can determine, neither suffers from want of Mrs. Loving's attention — and yet still finds small and persistent ways to attend to Isabelle as well. If Mrs. Loving were a man, Isabelle might describe Mrs. Loving's attentions as courting. A thoughtful gesture here, a useful gift there, a small kindness in between: the medicinal roots for Isabelle's illness, a haunch of venison for Isabelle's kitchen, a hand under Isabelle's elbow. Isabelle doesn't pretend to understand what drives Mrs. Loving; she might call it guilt, but Mrs. Loving has never shown a day's remorse for killing John. Nevertheless, Isabelle is not so short-sighted as to reject Mrs. Loving's little gestures. Other people's desires are useful — desire is as useful as a bridle and reins — and Mrs. Loving clearly desires to make amends for depriving Isabelle of a husband.

Furthermore, if Isabelle is honest — and Isabelle is always brutally honest — she has enjoyed Mrs. Loving's attentions. John never fussed over her, and Isabelle is learning she very much enjoys being fussed over. No one fusses over slave girls or whores, after all. And unlike Ling, who also wants to fuss over Isabelle — fuss over her and lay claim to the baby, too — Mrs. Loving is not driven by a desire to possess Isabelle. Isabelle must remind Ling again and again that no one possesses her, but Isabelle has no objection to Mrs. Loving's sense of obligation.

Isabelle had not expected, however, for Mrs. Loving's sense of obligation to go so far as this.

"They ache, do they not?" Mrs. Loving asks, as she sits beside Isabelle on the love seat. "And you have no husband to do it for you."

"You are mistaken, Mrs. Loving, if you think John ever rubbed my feet."

Mrs. Loving's face speaks volumes of her opinion of John — double-damned as a murderer and an unattentive husband — but she does not speak it aloud. It is as well: Isabelle still harbours an affection for John, the first free man to see her as something more than a whore — and to not only see her as something more, but to make good on his promises, too.

Mrs. Loving gestures for Isabelle's leg again.

The truth is that Isabelle's legs ache damnably. She _wants_ them to be rubbed, their aches soothed away. She craves it so much that she mistrusts herself: desire is as good as a bridle and reins, after all. If she puts her feet in Mrs. Loving's lap, is she benevolently granting one of Mrs. Loving's desires, or is she giving in to one of her own? The former is acceptable, the latter intolerable. But Mrs. Loving is too straightforward for subterfuge: it is one of her greatest weaknesses. She clearly wants to give Isabelle this while Isabelle wants just as much to accept it — and what is the point of being a lady, beyond power and security, if not to have the little things one wants?

With misgivings, Isabelle consents to putting her leg across Mrs. Loving's lap. Mrs. Loving unbuttons the too-tight boot, already partially undone to accommodate the swelling, and eases it off. Even that much is a relief, but then Mrs. Loving sets strong hands to Isabelle's stocking-footed arch, and that first touch is good enough that Isabelle makes a soft groan of appreciation.

Mrs. Loving smiles at that, quick and wry, but there is no smugness in it, no _victory._ The wary thing in Isabelle relaxes somewhat. Mrs. Loving seems intent on doing this properly, without rushing, and Isabelle settles herself lower against the love-seat arm, giving herself over to enjoying Mrs. Loving's competent, soothing hands. There is sheer animal pleasure in this, simpler and easier than sex, and for a while Isabelle lets herself drift on the sensation, wanton in her enjoyment.

"Other foot," Mrs. Loving prompts, and Isabelle rouses herself enough to place her other foot in Mrs. Loving's lap. Mrs. Loving eases free the boot and bends over her work, and Isabelle finds herself contemplating the question of Albert Smythe again. Albert Smythe, and his qualities as a husband. Obliging and competent and attentive, certainly. But how he would be as a _man?_ Isabelle has no idea. For all that Mrs. Loving's touch is quick and sure, she is still reserved, those dark eyes giving away nothing.

Mrs. Loving's fingers find a spot that is especially good, and Isabelle groans. Mrs. Loving looks up, and _there,_ Isabelle catches a hint of smugness.

Something in Isabelle bares its claws, before she quite realizes it has done so. "Do you find yourself lonely for a man, Mrs. Loving, your husband dead and now the Marshal left you, too?"

Mrs. Loving jerks at that, her hands too hard on Isabelle's calf. Isabelle delights in that too-harsh grip; it feels like a point won. Mrs. Loving deliberately gentles her hands, but her expression twists with annoyance. "I was not aware the Marshal _had_ left me. But how about you, Mrs. Smythe? One husband buried and abandoned by another — that's how they tell it in the cribs, you know," she adds maliciously. "The cribs and the mine, both. Mrs. Slotter so cold that her husband did not even stay his wedding night."

Isabelle laughs; she prefers Mrs. Loving like this, fire in her eyes and her tongue sharp. This emotion sits much more comfortably on her than her pretensions at duty and obligation. "I imagine they do. And yet I find that my husband is powerfully attentive. Particularly so, for a man that does not exist and has gone off to Billings, to boot."

The look Mrs. Loving gives her is laced with disgust, but she does not let up with her fingers. Strong and hard, and so very good. Isabelle deliberately makes a sound of pleasure, and is smugly pleased at Mrs. Loving's discomfiture. Isabelle strokes one stockinged foot over Mrs. Loving's thigh.

"And I am anything but cold, Mrs. Loving. Anything," she croons, "but _cold._ "

But Mrs. Loving has regained her composure. She plucks Isabelle's foot off her thigh and lays it in her lap again, beside the other. "So I imagine, Mrs. Smythe," she says, her smile quick and noncommittal, and sets strong fingers to Isabelle's arch again.

~ ~ ~

Five more days go by, and Isabelle needs only one thing of Mrs. Loving: for her to stop play-acting the devoted husband. Mrs. Loving has continued rubbing Isabelle's feet these past days, and Isabelle has grown to crave it, to nearly _need_ it. She takes far more pleasure in the act than is entirely comfortable her: her desire for Mrs. Loving's hands makes her itchy with discontent, chary she is racking up a debt that she cannot and does not wish to pay.

Mrs. Loving walks in the door that afternoon, her face and hands freshly scrubbed of coal dust, her boots and coat grimy from the mine. They have at long last begun excavating coal at the mine; it waits only for shipment to market. Cornelius is being difficult, however, refusing to allow them to ship by his railroad unless she or Ling signs over a greater share of the mine to him. Isabelle is angry enough to cut off her own nose for spite: she will ship the coal by cart and oxen before she gives in to his extortion, never mind that the freighting costs will eat the first wave of profits. Happily, Ling is a perfect match for Isabelle in stubbornness and vindictiveness, and has furthermore seized the opportunity to profit by Cornelius' manoeuvres: he has arranged for his workers to haul the coal to the first train depot beyond Cornelius' spur. Isabelle should be pleased at the unravelling of Cornelius's and Ling's alliance — and similarly gratified at being part of an owner-majority again — but Ling's new alliance with Isabelle has led him to redouble his efforts at laying claim to Isabelle and the baby, and irritation at Ling has drowned any other satisfaction she might feel.

In short, it has been an extremely trying week — Ling and Cornelius and the debilitating pleasure of nightly footrubs — and Isabelle is crabby and itchy and simmering with discontent.

"I will look in again later tonight," Mrs. Loving says, after she has given her report on the day's doings at the mine, and they have strategized how best to handle the shipping of the coal.

"Don't bother, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle says. The last thing she wants tonight is more of Mrs. Loving's virtuous do-gooding. "I have no need of you."

"It's no trouble," Mrs. Loving says. "I doubt I'll see the children tonight. Kelly is away at the Jamison ranch, raising the new barn with Morgan Finn. And Robin hardly takes two steps from Mrs. Blithely's side anymore—"

But Isabelle has no desire to hear about Mrs. Loving's children: she is not a charity project to combat Mrs. Loving's loneliness.

"If you are so intent on playing the part of my _husband,_ Mrs. Loving…" What was meant to be a seductive purr has a hiss of venom in it. She puts a hand to Mrs. Loving's coat collar, pulling her in until their bellies touch, and when this is not enough to make Mrs. Loving start and recoil, Isabelle pulls her in the rest of the way, and kisses her.

Mrs. Loving does not push her away.

Mrs. Loving leans in, returning the kiss, hungry in her own turn. Isabelle's stomach clenches with the sickening possibility that Mrs. Loving is going to turn this into a power play: accept Isabelle's kiss then set her aside, establishing her own superiority, her freedom from _want._

But she does no such thing: her hands come up to Isabelle's face, holding her in place. The moment for the power play comes and goes, and Mrs. Loving is still kissing Isabelle. Isabelle slides her hand inside Mrs. Loving's coat, strokes down over the swell of a breast, its containment under a corset. It has been long and longer since she touched a woman like this. Mrs. Loving still does not withdraw. Isabelle pulls back from the kiss, jerking herself free of Mrs. Loving's hands, and stares hard at her.

Mrs. Loving simply looks back, her eyebrows slightly raised. There's challenge in that expression, but no hostility. She smiles. "Now who is lonely for a man, Mrs. Smythe?"

Isabelle remembers the fictitious _Mr._ Smythe, a slight and attractive man, his Indian-long hair tucked up into his hat. He had existed for barely thirty minutes, gone as soon as the vows were spoken and the lawyer left. It is only Mrs. Loving here now.

"Clearly still you, Mrs. Loving," Isabelle returns coolly, and Mrs. Loving laughs. It is a simple, uncomplicated laugh, containing good humor and nothing else. Isabelle would have expected more sourness in Mrs. Loving; Isabelle remembers Mrs. Loving as nothing but sourness and strife when she first came to Janestown. Isabelle tilts her head and watches, intrigued by this Mrs. Loving, neither too angry nor too virtuous to kiss Isabelle back.

"I should make sure Robin is not waiting dinner on me," Mrs. Loving says. She ducks her chin, gives Isabelle a sly, sideways glance. "Finish cleaning up."

It is not quite a question.

Isabelle slides her hand back up Mrs. Loving's chest, up to the open collar of her shirt. There is a ring of grime low on Mrs. Loving's neck, trapped by her collar, missed when Mrs. Loving washed at the pump. Isabelle runs a thumb across the smudge, up Mrs. Loving's throat, and watches the dark mark smear under her thumb.

She touches Mrs. Loving's mouth, and again, Mrs. Loving does not pull away.

"Yes," Isabelle says with affected distaste, "you should."

Mrs. Loving smiles. "I'll look in later tonight, Mrs. Smythe," she says, and this time Isabelle doesn't contradict her.

~ ~ ~

Isabelle needs only one thing of Kat Loving: to be the baby's godmother.

The baby is John's. This is clear not only by the absence of Ling's features, but obvious in the unquestionable preponderance of John Slotter's: anyone who knew John would recognize it. There is no possibility of claiming that the child is really Albert Smythe's; even Cornelius, as sadistic and distant a father as he had been, would be able to recognize John's features in little Albert's face.

And therein lies the danger: Cornelius might have been a doting and easily-led grandfather to the fictitious little Cornelius Jr., but too much water has passed under the bridge since then. Cornelius had not yet known the humiliation of finding himself a dupe of Isabelle's schemes, and John too had still lived, asserting the dominion of the Slotter name over the child. John had been a weak man, but his position as the head of household had sheltered Cornelius Jr. from his grandfather's need for ownership and control.

His grandfather, Cornelius Sotter, whose world is made of power and control; Cornelius Slotter, who desperately wants an heir; Cornelius Slotter, who has a history of stealing babies.

There is no one to protect little Albert from Cornelius but Isabelle herself, and Isabelle has no resources beyond her money and her wiles.

And, perhaps, Kat Loving.

Cornelius is as wily as Isabelle; Cornelius has more money than Isabelle. What Cornelius does not have, could _never_ have, is a Kat Loving: someone who is fierce and true, someone whose loyalty cannot be bought or sold.

Unfortunately, Isabelle is not sure that _she_ has Kat Loving, either.

They have made no declarations this past month, during their intermittent bouts of pleasure. Nor had Isabelle wanted any, until she looked into Albert Jr.'s face and saw John Slotter's features, and knew that Cornelius would see them, too.

"Mrs. Loving," Isabelle greets the slight figure by the door. On a half-dozen occasions before this, Kat Loving had made free of Isabelle's bedroom, but now she stands back, wary and watchful. "It is good to see you," she adds, as friendly and gracious as she can know how to be. She pushes herself farther upright in bed, and tells the girl, _sotto voce,_ to bring her the baby. Isabelle will have to find a nanny, and soon, but first she must make sure that little Albert is protected from Cornelius.

The baby is placed into her arms, and Isabelle arranges the lace around the child's face to its best advantage. "Mrs. Loving," she summons. "Come meet your namesake."

"My namesake?" Mrs. Loving asks doubtfully, but she does as she is bid.

"Albert Smythe Jr.," Isabelle says, holding the baby so that Mrs. Loving can see him more clearly.

Mrs. Loving smiles at that, but it is a bittersweet thing. Her eyes are fixed on the child. "He looks like his father," she says. "Better to name him John than Albert."

"No," Isabelle says, with vehemence. "He's my son, not John's, and Cornelius shall not have him."

Mrs. Loving looks up from the baby, takes in Isabelle's expression. She nods once: Mrs. Loving has had only a little experience of Cornelius, but it has been enough to take his measure. She also understands a mother's fierce protectiveness of her child: it is another thing she and Isabelle have in common.

Isabelle's heart thumps in hope.

"Here, sit," Isabelle says, catching Mrs. Loving's sleeve, and draws her down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Hold Albert," Isabelle urges, and mustering her courage, she bundles the child into Mrs. Loving's arms.

Mrs. Loving takes the child. There is something raw in her expression. They have not talked much of their histories; Isabelle knows only that Mrs. Loving had a baby once, not long before she came to Janestown, and does not have one now. One mourning mother had recognized another, in the first days after little Ada's death.

Isabelle cannot quite let go of Albert: she keeps one protective hand on Mrs. Loving's arm.

Mrs. Loving holds the child, and brushes the lace away from his face. She croons to him softly in a language Isabelle does not understand. It might be a lullaby; it might be a blessing. Eventually she looks up. "He's beautiful," she says with full sincerity. Isabelle is light with relief: Albert is the spitting image of John Slotter, and Mrs. Loving had less than no affection for the man. Apparently she will not hold that against his son.

"I'd like you to be his godmother," Isabelle says, and Mrs. Loving looks up again. She says nothing.

"He needs more protection than I can supply," Isabelle says into the silence. She considers dissimulating, considers speaking of the wildness of Janestown, but Mrs. Loving would respond better to the truth. "From his grandfather. There is no protection that I can hire that he can't hire away from me again."

Mrs. Loving watches her, nods slowly. "You need a shooter," she says, looking back at the child.

"Yes," Isabelle admits.

"You don't need me to be godmother, for that. As if I would ever stand back and allow a man to steal a child."

"Not while you are here, no," Isabelle says, for she knows Kat Loving as well as that. "But when you have gone to your ranch…"

For that still lies ahead: Kat Loving will not always be in Janestown. And then will Kat Loving consider Isabelle's problems her own?

"You want to know that if the child needs me, I will come," Kat Loving says.

"Yes," Isabelle says. Isabelle should be eloquent, should weave a web of words that would bind Mrs. Loving. Instead, this is all she has: _yes._

"That I will shoot Cornelius Slotter for you."

"Yes."

Kat Loving watches her a long moment, then goes back to looking at the baby. "Yes," she says, as much to the baby as to Isabelle. "In that case, I will come."

~ ~ ~

In the end, Isabelle needs only one thing of Kat Loving: for her to hold the baby while Isabelle shoots Cornelius herself.

"No-good raping bastard," Isabelle says, and takes hold of Cornelius's jacket shoulder to haul his body off the screaming kitchen girl. She's not hurt, just hysterical. Cornelius' body slides to the floor at the girl's feet, and splays there awkwardly. Isabelle should have known better than to leave Cornelius alone with the girl, but her first priority had been to get Albert out of the house before Cornelius saw him. And then the girl had started screaming, and Isabelle, knowing exactly what she would find, had thrust Albert into Kat Loving's arms and gone to see to the man herself.

Kat steps forward, one arm full of wailing baby, and takes the girl's hand, guiding her past the body at her feet. "There now," Kat croons, putting an arm around the girl, as calm as if she dealt with screaming kitchen girls every day. Kat pets the girl's hair while she soothes her. Isabelle doesn't know where she finds the patience. "No harm done. You're safe now."

The derringer is surprisingly heavy in Isabelle's hand. Shooting the bastard was not as satisfying as she had hoped. She raises the gun again and puts the second bullet into the body. The girl shrieks into Kat's shoulder anew. Just for good measure, Isabelle spits on the corpse. _There._ That had some satisfaction in it, at least.

"Better than he deserves," Kat says, over the wails of girl and baby.

Isabelle looks up and focuses on Kat, who is looking somewhat harassed by her wailing twin burdens. It's good to know that even Kat Loving's patience is finite.

"Here, give me Albert," Isabelle says, and puts the empty derringer down on the kitchen table. She reaches for the baby, who reaches for her in turn. Kat hands the child over, and Isabelle murmurs softly to him, bouncing him on her hip. Albert is mostly just upset about the noise of the gunshot; Cornelius hadn't even had time to lay eyes on the child, let alone opportunity to harm him.

Cornelius died without ever knowing he had a grandson. It's almost a pity: Albert will never inherit his grandfather's fortune.

"Would you have enjoyed being a railroad magnate?" she asks her son, who only continues crying. Never mind. Isabelle will just have to make a fortune for the child herself. There's time. She kisses his forehead. His tears are already losing some of their intensity.

Kat has seated the girl in a kitchen chair and gotten her a glass of water. While Isabelle watches, Kat takes off her coat and puts it around the girl's shoulders; the girl clutches it tight over her torn bodice and scrawny chest. Kat pats the girl's shoulder once, twice — the girl is already starting to calm herself — then Kat stands to rejoin Isabelle. They look down at the body together, bleeding sluggishly onto the kitchen floor.

"Trouble is, with shooting a man like that," Kat says, spitting her words. "Even in death, the law is on his side."

"He was in the middle of attempting to rape her," Isabelle says, although she knows Kat is right. The law has never cared what happens to colored girls. Not in the States, and not in Canada, neither.

"No matter. Law is going to look for someone to hang."

Isabelle reseats Albert on her hip. "I suppose we could hide the body. Drag it out into the woods. He has no friends, no one to come looking for him."

Kat shakes her head. "He had money, which is worse. Someone will find the body, and then they will cry murder for sure."

"We need someone to blame for it," Isabelle muses, turning over the possibilities. One of John's henchmen would be ideal, but they all scattered to the winds after his death. Ling might do. It would be convenient to have him out of the way, although he would be even more tenaciously dangerous than he is now, if he was fighting for his life.

"Hmph," Kat says, and goes over to the serving girl. She kneels down, takes her hands, and looks her in the eyes. "You saw who did this. It was Mrs. Smythe's husband, wasn't it?" 

The girl looks back at her in confusion. 

"If anyone asks, that's who shot Mr. Slotter. Mr. Smythe," Kat prompts.

The girl looks nervously at Isabelle, who nods with appreciation. The story has merit: there's no one but the girl to say it didn't happen, and no one to fight back against the story, either. And come the future, it would explain why Isabelle's husband never again came back to Janestown, if he was running from the law.

"Cecelia," Kat says, and the girl looks back at her again. "Who shot Mr. Slotter?"

"Mr. Smythe?" the girl says uncertainly.

"That's right, Mr. Smythe," Kat says. "Isabelle's husband. Dark hair, about my height. Only been back in Janestown for a day. The two of them were arguing about the mine, and then he shot Mr. Slotter and took out through that door there." She nods at the kitchen door.

"High-tailed it for leather," the girl elaborates, looking to Isabelle for approval. Then, getting the bit between her teeth, "Like the bats of hell were after 'im."

Kat smiles proudly and squeezes the girl's hands. "That's right," she says. "Mr. Smythe. Now, who shot Mr. Slotter?"

"Mr. Smythe," the girl says, with confidence. "Missus's husband. Just back in Janestown."

Kat smiles and stands, and tucking her hair back up into her hat, she comes back over to Isabelle. "I'll need to borrow a coat of Captain Slotter's, if you still have one. And a horse, too. Need to lay a trail for them to chase. You should send to the station house for help."

"Not worried about the Marshal catching you?" Isabelle asks.

Kat grins, and there's something deliciously sharp and toothy in it. "He ain't caught me yet. I do not reckon he will manage it tonight." She turns for the stairs, then stops and turns back. "Should take that ring you are wearing, too," she says, nodding toward Isabelle's breast.

Isabelle doubts anyone will get close enough to Kat to note the presence or absence of a wedding ring, but she draws the chain out of her bodice, and reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp. She slips the wedding ring off its chain. With a smile, she takes Kat's hand and slides the ring on her finger. "Godspeed, husband," she says, then impulsively leans in to press a kiss to Kat Loving's cheek. "Hurry back."

 


End file.
